


Permission to Love

by AFey



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 10:43:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17507090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AFey/pseuds/AFey
Summary: For S: Thank you for the inspiration ❤️





	Permission to Love

**Author's Note:**

> For S: Thank you for the inspiration ❤️

Years later, you still remembered the first time you uttered those crucial words.

Words that deserved to be shouted from atop the highest mountain or, failing that, from the top of what used to be the tallest building in the world. Instead, you stood on the observation deck of the Empire State Building, shivering in your purloined Runway coat, as the words passed your lips in a whisper.

“I love Miranda Priestly.”

Four words so monumental you had to repeat them, your warm breath condensing in the cold air, a cloud that reminded you yet again of the woman you’d left behind in Paris.

Miranda Priestly: Dragon Lady. Snow Queen. The Devil in Prada.

All soubriquets that held more than a hint of truth about the woman in question but were incredibly insufficient. Lacking in a way that Miranda Priestly never would be.

“I love Miranda Priestly,” you whispered again in awe.

******

The next time you made that declaration your voice was quiet and urgent.

Nate was back from Boston, with claims he missed you. Claims that were contrary to the rumours that seeped down the east coast before his arrival. Tales of wild nights with a nubile blonde helpfully passed along the collegial network you'd somehow resurrected. The night before you'd feigned dismay for Lily, knowing it was expected. Your stomach untwisted, shoulders relaxed. And you breathed deeply for the first time in years.

“It’s over,” you said, mere moments after Nate dropped a duffle bag on your threadbare couch.

At his blank look you raised an eyebrow, reminiscent of the person you'd much rather have in your apartment.

“It’s been over for months,” you murmured, almost to yourself. The truth, which you only faced in that instant, was that your relationship withered on the vine the second Miranda Priestly looked you up and down and licked her lips.

“Why?” Nate asked, seemingly perplexed, but you knew how to read him. What he really meant was, “How did you find out?”

You swallowed and said, “It's simple Nate. I don't love you. I love Miranda Priestly.”

Nate did not take the announcement well and you refused to feel guilty. You'd been unfaithful in thoughts but not in deeds and if, after gentle explanation, he were incapable of understanding the distinction, then that was hardly your fault.

******

It was months later before you said those words out loud again.

You were at the US Open grateful that the oppressive temperatures had finally abated. Seated towards the back of the stadium you prayed that somehow you'd cross paths with the woman well known for her attendance every year. You prayed even harder that if such a miracle were granted, Miranda would actually acknowledge your presence.

Roddick lost to Federer and the day ended in disappointment for your countrymen, but not for you. Standing outside the stadium, waiting for your friend to emerge from the restroom, you spotted a flash of silver hair in the crowd. A moment of indecision before you heeded the siren call, pushing your way past young and old alike, only vaguely aware of the curses trailing behind you.

Your heart soared when you fell into step behind Miranda, marvelling at how even outside the Elias-Clarke building, everyone knew to make way for her.

You waited until she reached her town car before you announced your presence.

“Miranda,” you said, relieved to find your voice betrayed nothing but mild pleasure, even as your heart beat quickened with anticipation.

A pause and then she turned around, looked you up and down and said, “Andrea.” Her voice was soft and perhaps she would have continued if not for the appearance of her companion.

“Six!”

You smiled at Nigel, despite his abysmal timing. Pleasantries were exchanged for a couple of minutes, though your eyes constantly wandered over to Miranda.

After a subtle clearing of her throat, she nodded in farewell and entered the town car. Nigel gave you a knowing look and proposed a catch up.

“Sounds like a plan,” you said, trying to sound casual. If you couldn't be with Miranda at least you could hear all about her over cocktails and cuisine.

You watched as the town car pulled away from the kerb, sighing as the tail lights of the Mercedes receded in the distance.

“Yeah,” you murmured, turning away and walking back towards the restroom, conjuring excuses for your absence. “This is real. I love Miranda Priestly.”

******

When you next said those words you were slumped in your seat at some swanky bar, while Emily and Nigel danced on, having abandoned you once your mood slipped from glum to maudlin.

Drunk and paying scant attention to your surroundings, fingers tracing patterns on your martini glass, you lamented past mistakes. Head in your hands you finally blurted out the words you'd resisted saying all evening.

“I love Miranda Priestly.”

A sharp intake of breath, the hint of a familiar one-of-a-kind perfume and the realisation you'd inadvertently revealed too much to the most enigmatic woman you'd ever met.

“If you say so,” she said briskly. “Now let's leave before the whole of Manhattan knows as well.”

You obeyed. Of course you did. Followed her through the crowded bar, shooting Nigel a grateful look and receiving an encouraging nod in return.

In the back of her town car, silence descended and you tried to gather your thoughts into something resembling that of a sober person.

“Andrea do you really need to be drunk to tell me you love me?”

You were surprised that she sounded hurt and even with your drink-addled mind you were cogent enough not to point out that technically you hadn’t said the words _to_ her.

“No,” you replied. “But it helps.”

“Hmm,” she sniffed, and then remained silent for the rest of the journey to the townhouse.

“Would you like Roy to drive you home?”

“What's the alternative?” you asked because bravery and stupidity are separated by the thinnest of lines when drunk.

“My guest bedroom,” Miranda said, her hand on the door handle of the town car. “Coming?”

Thankfully you weren't drunk enough to enquire how you could come if she were in another room.

“And Andrea,” she said the moment the door of the townhouse closed behind you both. “Tomorrow I expect a sober confession.”

Her lips were pursed but you managed to spot the hopefulness in her eyes.

“Of course, Miranda.”

******

The next time those words escaped the confines of your mind they were committed to paper, never to be retracted. A reality you'd contemplated for days before you addressed the envelope, attached the stamp, and trusted your innermost thoughts and feelings to the U.S. Postal Service.

“Are you sure?”

“I'm positive,” you replied with a smile.

“An email would be far more efficient. And reliable.”

You shook your head. “This is momentous. I'm not announcing it via email.”

“And I suppose a phone call is definitely out of the question?”

You wrapped your arm around her waist and placed a kiss on her cheek. “They'll be shocked. Better to let them respond once it's worn off.”

“They're your parents, darling. I'll defer to your judgement.”

“Wow, can I get that in writing?” you teased. “No one will believe me otherwise.”

Miranda fixed you with a look that would have scared you if she were still your boss. You didn't have the heart to tell her that such looks had been powerless for two months, ever since the moment she'd begged you to make her come.

It was a week later that your brother called, his voice filled with glee. “Way to set the cat amongst the pigeons, sis. Or should I say the dragon?”

“Seriously though, you could have warned me,” he said, the laughter gone, his voice serious

“That bad, huh?”

“They'll get over it,” he said, a note of amusement reappearing in his voice. “Besides, it's about time you were the bad seed.”

You laughed despite the apprehension that flowed through your body.

“Too early to call them?” you asked, fairly sure you already knew the answer.

“Yeah, maybe wait another week,” he said with a sigh. “The tears have stopped. In a few more days I'm sure they'll be able to say her name without adding a curse word.”

“Oh, fuck,” you said.

“Yes, that's the one,” he confirmed with a laugh. “Don’t worry, Andy. If they survived my rehab they can survive this.”

“Let’s hope so,” you said, though hope was not something you felt at the time.

Lucky for you, and them, your parents eventually saw the light, understood that what you shared with Miranda was not something temporary. And though gatherings were tense for years, your parents learned to accept the situation or at least pretend they did, which was good enough for you.

******

The most recent time you said those words you shouted them into the empty rooms of your new home. A townhouse that you bought with your wife, smaller than the one she had before, but immensely better since it came without the ghosts of husbands past.

“Do you mind?” Miranda asked, an imperious note in her voice. “I may be twice your age but my hearing is perfectly fine.”

“I love _you_ , Miranda Priestly,” you shouted, knowing that it wouldn't be long until the twins descended upon you both and the opportunity would be lost.

“You're ridiculous,” she said with a shake of her head and a pursing of her lips that no longer fooled you.

“You love it,” you declared, hands on hips, all confidence and attitude.

She stared at you a moment and then reached for your hand.

“I love you,” she countered. “Despite the inappropriate shouting.”

“Ah,” you said, drawing her into an embrace. “You didn't seem to mind my shouting last night.”

“Shouting in the bedroom, when the twins are absent, is perfectly acceptable, Andrea.”

“I'll remember that,” you replied with a grin before whispering ideas for how to appropriately christen your new home.


End file.
